Chapter 23 - Bianca
I wake to darkness and cold.
For a long moment, I don't know where I am. The surface beneath me is hard—concrete, I think—and my arms are twisted behind my back at an angle that sends pain shooting through my shoulders. My head throbs, a dull persistent ache that pulses with every heartbeat.
Then memory crashes back. The explosion. The men pouring through the ruined door. Anna's scream. The needle in my neck.
Sergei.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the harsh glare of a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The room is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with concrete walls stained by water damage and age.
No windows. One door—heavy steel, no handle on this side.
A drain in the center of the floor, rusted around the edges.
My hands are bound behind me with zip ties, the plastic biting into my wrists. My ankles are free, but when I try to move, I realize there's a chain attached to my left wrist, running to a bolt in the wall. Just long enough to let me sit up or lie down. Not long enough to reach the door.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
The panic rises in my chest, hot and suffocating. I can't breathe. Can't think. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down, and I'm going to die here in this concrete box and no one will ever find me—
Stop.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way I learned in my first anatomy lab, standing over a cadaver, fighting the urge to faint.
I am not going to panic. I am not going to fall apart.
I am going to survive.
The first thing I do is take inventory.
My body first. I'm sore everywhere—my shoulders from the awkward position, my wrists from the zip ties, my head from whatever they used to sedate me. There's dried blood on my face, probably from when they hit me, and my lip is swollen and tender.
But nothing feels broken. Nothing feels seriously damaged.
I press my bound hands against my stomach as best I can. The nausea is there—faint but present, that familiar queasy feeling that's become my constant companion. A strange sort of comfort. If I'm still nauseous, the baby is probably still okay.
Hold on, I think to the life inside me. Just hold on.
Next, I examine my surroundings. The cell is bare—no furniture, no objects, nothing I could use as a weapon or a tool. The walls are solid concrete, cold and damp to the touch. The bolt that holds my chain is set deep into the wall, immovable no matter how hard I pull.
The door is my only way out. And it's locked from the outside.
I have nothing. No weapons, no tools, no way to escape.
All I can do is wait.
Time moves strangely in the cell.
Without windows, without any way to track the sun, I have no idea how long I've been here. Hours, maybe. It feels like longer. Every minute stretches into eternity, filled with nothing but the flickering of the light bulb and the distant drip of water somewhere beyond the walls.
I try to stay calm. Try to think clearly. But my mind keeps circling back to the same questions, the same fears.
Does Misha know I'm gone? Is he looking for me? Does he even know where to start?
I think about Anna. The last thing I saw before they drugged me was her body crumpling to the floor. They said she was alive, said they weren't there for her. But what if they were wrong? What if she's—
I can't think about that. Can't afford to let my mind go there.
I think about the baby. This tiny cluster of cells that has become the center of everything.
I'm only a few weeks along—early enough that anything could go wrong, especially under this kind of stress.
The sedation they used, the rough handling, the fear coursing through my body—any of it could be enough to end this pregnancy before it really begins.
I press my hands against my stomach again, as if I could protect the life inside me through sheer force of will.
I won't let them hurt you, I promise silently. Whatever happens to me, I'll find a way to keep you safe.
It's a promise I don't know if I can keep. But I make it anyway, because the alternative is despair. And despair is surrender.
***
The door opens without warning.
I scramble backward, pressing myself against the wall, my heart pounding. Two men enter—guards, armed, their faces blank and professional. One carries a tray of food, the other watches me with his hand on his weapon.
They don't speak. Don't even look at me directly. The one with the tray sets it on the floor just within my reach, then they both withdraw, the door slamming shut behind them.
I stare at the food—bread, cheese, a bottle of water. Simple fare, nothing that could be used as a weapon. They've thought of everything.
I should eat. I know I should eat. For the baby, if nothing else.
But my stomach rebels at the thought. The nausea is stronger now, whether from the pregnancy or the fear, I can't tell. I force myself to take a few bites of bread, a few sips of water. It's not enough, but it's something.
The silence returns, heavier than before.
***
The second time the door opens, it's not the guards.
The man who enters is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair silvered at the temples and cold eyes that assess me like I'm merchandise to be appraised. He moves with the casual confidence of someone who owns everything in his sight.
I know who he is before he speaks.
Sergei Morozov.
"Bianca Benedetti." He says my name slowly, tasting each syllable. "At last."
I don't respond. I won't give him the satisfaction.
He crosses the cell slowly, his footsteps echoing on the concrete, and stops just out of reach. Close enough to intimidate. Far enough to stay safe.
"You're prettier than I expected," he says. "Misha has good taste. I'll give him that."
I keep my face blank, my eyes fixed on the wall behind him.
"Not much of a talker? That's fine. I don't need you to talk." He crouches down to my level, studying my face. "I just need you to exist. To be here, in my hands, while Misha tears himself apart trying to find you."
"He'll kill you." My voice comes out rough, scratchy. "When he finds me, he'll kill you."
Sergei laughs—a warm sound, almost genuine. "Oh, I'm counting on him trying. That's the whole point." He tilts his head. "Do you know how long I've been planning this? How many weeks I've spent learning his weaknesses, mapping his defenses?"
"I don't care."
"No, I suppose you don't." He reaches out and touches my face—a gentle caress that makes my skin crawl. "But you should. Because everything that's about to happen—all the blood, all the death—it's all because of you."
I jerk away from his touch. "Don't touch me."
Something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or amusement.
"Spirit. Good. I was worried you'd be boring.
" He stands, brushing off his knees. "Misha is already looking for you, you know.
Tearing through my operations, killing anyone who might know where you are.
He's quite impressive when he's motivated. "
My heart leaps, but I keep my face still. He's coming. He's coming for me.
"It won't matter," Sergei continues. "He won't find you in time. And when he finally does—when he walks right into the trap I've laid for him—he'll die."
He turns and walks toward the door.
"Get some rest, Bianca. The next few hours are going to be eventful."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone with the echo of his words.
***
I don't know how much time passes after Sergei leaves.
I try to track it by the flickering of the light bulb, by the growling of my stomach, by the ache in my shoulders that grows steadily worse. But without any frame of reference, the minutes blur together into one endless stretch of fear and waiting.
I think about Misha. About the way he looked at me before he sealed the safe room door—that fierce intensity, that barely contained emotion he tries so hard to hide. I didn't tell him I loved him. Didn't tell him about the baby. There was always tomorrow, always more time.
Now there might not be.
I think about my father. My brothers. The men who sold me and set this whole nightmare in motion. I used to wonder if they ever felt guilty. Now I know they didn't. I was never a daughter to them. Just an asset.
I think about the baby. This tiny life that depends entirely on me. A life that might never exist if I don't find a way out of this cell.
Your father is coming, I tell it silently. He won't stop until he finds us.
I have to believe that. It's all I have.
***
The third time the door opens, it's Sergei again.
He's different now. There's a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. He's pacing, agitated, his composure cracking at the edges.
Something has changed.
"Your boyfriend is more resourceful than I expected," he says, not looking at me.
"It doesn't matter." Sergei stops pacing, fixes me with those cold eyes.
"He doesn't know where you are. None of them did—I made sure of that.
He's thrashing around in the dark, hoping to get lucky. " A thin smile. "Luck runs out."
"Or maybe you're not as smart as you think you are."
His hand moves before I can react—a sharp slap across my face that snaps my head back and fills my mouth with the taste of blood.
"Don't test me, Bianca. I've been patient with you because I find you amusing. But my patience has limits."
I spit blood onto the concrete floor. "So does mine."
For a moment, I think he's going to hit me again. His hand is raised, his eyes blazing with fury. But then he takes a breath, composes himself, and the mask slides back into place.
"You're trying to provoke me. Hoping I'll lose control, make a mistake." He shakes his head. "It won't work. I've waited too long for this. Misha will come for you, and when he does, I'll be ready."
He leaves without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.
I sit in the silence, blood dripping from my split lip, and I smile.
He's afraid. Underneath all that arrogance, all that careful planning—Sergei is afraid.
Because Misha is coming. And deep down, Sergei knows he might not be able to stop him.
***
The hours crawl by.
I force myself to eat more of the bread, drink more of the water. I need my strength. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready.
The nausea comes and goes. I breathe through it, focusing on the rhythm—in through the nose, out through the mouth. The baby is still there, still holding on. That's something. That's everything.
I think about what Sergei said. That Misha is tearing through his operations, killing anyone who might know where I am. I can picture it so clearly—that cold fury, that relentless violence. The monster he becomes when someone threatens what's his.
I used to be afraid of that monster. Now I'm praying for it.
Find me, I think, willing the words to reach him somehow. Please, Misha. Find me.
The light bulb flickers. The water drips somewhere in the darkness beyond the walls. And I wait.
***
I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake to the sound of distant gunfire.
For a moment, I think I'm dreaming. But the sound comes again—muffled pops, barely audible through the concrete walls. Then more, closer. The sharp crack of rifles. Shouts. Screaming.
My heart stops. Then starts again, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Misha.
I scramble to sit up, pressing myself against the wall, straining to hear. The sounds of battle are getting louder. Closer. I can hear running footsteps somewhere above me, more gunfire, the crash of something heavy falling.
He's here. He found me.
The gunfire moves through the building like a wave, getting closer and closer to wherever I am. I hear men shouting in Russian—Sergei's men, I think—and then more shots, more screaming.
An explosion rocks the building, showering dust from the ceiling. I flinch, covering my head with my bound hands, but I don't look away from the door.
The sounds are right outside now. Footsteps. A voice I don't recognize, shouting orders. More gunfire—close, so close.
Then silence.
I hold my breath, staring at the door, my whole body trembling.
Please. Please.
The door handle rattles.
And then nothing.
Silence. Complete and absolute.
I wait, barely breathing, my eyes fixed on that steel door.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I can't tell anymore.
The door doesn't open.